


Solidarity

by asexual-fandom-queen (writeordietrying)



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Catholic Mick Rory, Character Study, Gen, Jewish Barry Allen, M/M, Muslim Leonard Snart, Non-Chronological, Presbyterian Sara Lance, Religion, Sikh David Singh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-14 23:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11793771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeordietrying/pseuds/asexual-fandom-queen
Summary: Five times Leonard Snart finds solidarity with someone of a different religion, and the one time he doesn't.





	Solidarity

**Author's Note:**

> It's a touch late, but here's my contribution for Legends of Superflarrow Diversity Appreciation Week's religion day. Muslim Len is something I've had an interest in exploring for a while now, and this event gave me a great opportunity to do so! There are a lot of discussions about faith and religion from people of different religious backgrounds in this fic, and I did my research, but I'm certainly not an expert, so if I've made any glaring errors anywhere, let me know. Also, as I'm writing this before the new season, it's possibly Zari's characterization is wrong. Also I wasn't sure if she'll be regularly wearing the hijab, so in this fic she doesn't. 
> 
> Also, if you like this fic, leaving kudos and comments would certainly make my day! 
> 
> **warning for mentions of islamophobia and an instance of islamophobic language**

**_1\. Stein_ **

“Kid says repairs on the Time Drive are gonna be a month.”

Stein jerks in surprise when Len speaks, dropping his spoon with a messy slosh into his soup. The sweet, earthy smell of chicken broth tickles Len’s nose and floods his tongue with saliva, though he knows from experience that Gideon’s best synthesized effort still doesn’t hold a candle to the comforting warmth of matzo ball soup made by a loved one.

“Y-yes,” Stein stammers after a minute, glancing surreptitiously around the room first, as though Len might be talking to someone – anyone – else. “I heard.”

“You’ve got a way of tracking dawn and dusk on this ‘ole tin can,” Len observes, his voice a slow, disinterested drawl. Abruptly, he turns the whole of his focus from some abstract point in the corner of the room to Stein and smirks. “I want in.”

Stein blinks, quick and bewildered, then reaches up to adjust his glasses as his brows furrow. Len pushes off the doorframe and wanders to the counter, leveraging himself up to sit, one boot curled under his thigh.

“Really, there is no way to track the sun in a space that exists outside time,” Stein explains.

“But you and Palmer have a system.”

Len’s eyes narrow, something that never fails to make Stein ruffled and insufferably pedantic. “It’s interesting, actually. Many rabbis and Jewish scholars agree that all time-bound mitzvot are exempt once a person leaves Earth,” Stein says. “Of course, not everyone agrees. In fact, Jewish astronauts have been known to use the sunup and sundown times of their origin of departure while on the ISS.”

“Which is what you’re doing,” Len guesses.

“A version of it,” Stein agrees. “Since we’re out of time rather than space, there is no way to relate our time back to that of, say, Central City. But, it is possible for Gideon to track how many hours we’ve been displaced from our timelines, and when sunrise and sunset would be, had we remained on Earth. Of course, Raymond and I are no longer in synch after all the times we’ve been separated, so we’ve agreed to both follow my internal clock. It’s nice to have someone to observe with.”

Len tilts his head. “Makes sense,” he says. He remains perched on the counter, thinking.

Stein turns back to his meal, but obviously can’t fully settle with Len still in the room. “I didn’t realize you were Jewish as well, Mr. Snart,” Stein says, cracking at last.

Len shrugs. “I’m not,” he replies. “But so long as we’re stuck here for a month, now seems as good a time as any to celebrate Ramadan. Not technically the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, but hey, it’s not technically Shabbat for you and Boy Scout, either.”

Len offers Stein a shit-eating grin the slides gracefully off the counter, crossing the room in long strides. Stein takes a second to process, and Len’s halfway out the door before he manages to sputter out, “M-Mr. Snart.”

Len stops, turns on his heels and gives Stein a curious look.

“You’re welcome to join Raymond and me,” Stein says. “Not for Shabbat, I mean. But on our internal clock. If you’d like some sense of community.”

Len trails his fingers over cool metal, body wrapped around the edge of the doorframe with enough force to feel the outline pressed against his sternum. “Invitation accepted,” Len replies with a tilt of his head, then a wave of his fingers.

He’s gone before Stein can say anything else.

 

**_2\. Singh_ **

“CCPD! Put your hands up.”

Len has very little choice but to oblige. His bike is still halfway down the alley, his handgun still resting on his bedside table. It’s his own fault for being sloppy enough to get caught, but he’s head’s been elsewhere all day.

_Lisa ruptured her achilles tendon._

No matter how many times he thinks it, the pill doesn’t become any less bitter to swallow. Figure skating was it for her. She was going to make it big and leave Central City and their shit excuse for a father behind. But there’s no way Lewis pays for the elective surgery to get her back in competing condition, and Lisa’s mother is either too drunk or too terrified of her boyfriend’s fists to speak up on her daughter’s behalf.

Len needed the hit, needed the score, needed something to give him hope.

“Now, turn around slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Len does, and gets his first look at the officer who’s stopped him. He’s in plainclothes, fresh-faced and handsome, no older than Len, if not a few years younger. Truth be told, if they were meeting under different circumstances, he’s exactly the kind of guy Len would pick up for a quick night of fun. Jury’s still out on whether he’ll try his luck anyway.

“Leonard Snart,” the officer says, his deep brown eyes cast even deeper in shadow in the low lighting of the alley. “What are you doing here?”

Putting on all the bravado he can muster, Len inclines his head in the direction of the building he’s just left and offers the officer a pompous smirk. “ _Zakat_ ,” he replies.

Len’s expecting to see the officer’s brows knit in confusion, or at the very least, for him not to react, so it comes as a surprise when he lowers his gun half an inch and lets out one of the most conflicted sighs Len’s ever heard.

“Fuck, this is just great,” he mutters to himself, the sarcasm laid on thick.  

The hair on the back of Len’s neck stands on end. “Problem, officer?” he asks, trying to keep the nerves out of his tone. Normally, the kind of people who bash his religion don’t know enough about it to recognize any of its Five Pillars by name, and certainly not to recognize them in Arabic, but Len doesn’t feel entirely confident dismissing the possibility.

Of course, it’s also likely the officer is reacting less to Len being Muslim and more to the fact that he’s just come out of an LGBT youth shelter. Gay bashing is much more commonplace in Len’s life than islamophobia, though he’s only come back to the faith of his childhood in the past several months, knows that’s something that might change.

The officer scoffs, harsh and bitter, and shakes his head. “Yeah,” he says. “I gave up my one night off this week to mentor queer kids, not have a morality crisis, so, thanks for that. Thank you very much.”

Len’s brain scrambles to adjust to this new turn of events. He’s not sure what it means, but his situation suddenly feels markedly less dire. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says, trying to put some semblance of control back into his hands.  

“Officer Singh,” the man replies on instinct, then immediately berates himself. “And why would I tell you that? You had nothing on me.”

“If it’s any consolation, Officer Singh,” Len says. “I’d have found out anyway, if I really wanted.”  

Singh worries his lip between his teeth. Len let’s him sweat. Finally, Singh lowers his gun another two inches and asks, “were you really in there making a donation?”

Len narrows his eyes. “You’re Muslim?” he asks.

Singh shakes his head. “Neither is the youth centre,” he says. “I thought that was the whole point of _Zakat_ , anyway. Giving to poor Muslims.”

“Let’s just say I’m still trying to work out where I fit with this whole Islam thing,” Len replies, cryptic as he figures he can get away with.

That’s enough to get Singh to lower his gun and return it to his holster. He scrubs a hand down his face, still shaking his head, like he can’t believe he’s doing any of what he’s doing, and honestly, Len can’t either.

“Go,” Singh huffs, stepping aside to clear the mouth of the alley.

Len’s hackles rise. “You’re just gonna look the other way because of my religion?” he asks. “Or maybe it’s my sexuality? You do me a favor, I do you–”  

Singh matches Len’s ire like a switch was flipped. “I’m looking the other way because this world is shit enough without going out of my way to police what little good does happen,” Singh says, nearly a shout, but keeping his voice controlled enough to avoid attracting attention. “And because you’re not the only person who’s religion advocates sharing your prosperity,” he adds.

Len considers that, gives Singh a thorough, calculating look. “You’re Sikh,” he says finally.

Singh huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. “The turban and the beard really give me away.”

He gestures to his close-cropped hair and clean-shaven faith with a hint of confliction beneath the bemused expression. The rest of the tension eases from Len’s body, as much as it ever does.

“Maybe we’re not actually so different,” Singh proposes. “Just a couple of queer brown kids trying to figure out where we fit when none of our pieces seem to wanna go together. Maybe that’s why.”

There’s something remarkably vulnerable about the statement that makes Len’s insides curl and flip. He doesn’t want to examine it too closely.

“Maybe,” Len agrees, backing toward his bike. He grabs his helmet from the handlebars and swings his leg over the seat. “‘Course,” he adds. “I’m on my way to rob a bank after this, so maybe we’re not so alike after all.”

Len doesn’t leave time for Singh to comment. He slides on his helmet, starts his bike, and peels out of the alley, nearly running the officer down on his way by.

 

**_3\. Mick_ **

Len’s shoulder is still aching when he shuffles into the kitchen in baggy pair of sweatpants and and even baggier sweater that can’t possibly be his. It smells of sweat and woodsmoke and gasoline in a way that’s still somehow pleasant.

“Good, you’re alive,” Mick grunts. He’s in a pair of sleep pants, chest is bare, a dangerous game with the bacon spitting grease indiscriminately on the stovetop, but it hardly seems to faze Mick when the errant droplets land against his skin.

“It was a through-and-through,” Len grumbles, sitting at the table and pulling two pancakes from the stack. There’s a plate already waiting, along with a knife and a fork and a full glass of water.

Len’s never stayed overnight at Mick’s place before. They’ve been partners on and off for just over ten years, but the few times their relationship has crossed the line into the personal, it’s been under dire circumstances. That’s even true now, Len laying low, recovering from a gunshot wound and hiding out from those moronic, trigger happy Santini kids. If Mick hadn’t taken him home and patched him up, Len would probably be dead.

Though cooking him breakfast feels like more than just obligation, professional or otherwise.

Before Len can react, Mick’s crossing the kitchen with his frying pan and a pair of tongs and depositing a huge stack of bacon on top of Len’s pancakes. Len watches, heart seizing, as the grease soaks into the pancakes, tiny flecks of char speckling the golden crust.

Len opens his mouth, but the words freeze in his throat.

Mick notices anyway. “What?” he asks, putting the tongs down in the pan to grab a piece with bare fingers.

“I don’t eat bacon,” Len replies after a deep, steadying breath. _Anymore_ , he could add. He’s only stopped in the past year, trying be more observant, to eat only what’s halal. Bacon, he’s been successful with. Mini-marshmallows are still a work in progress.

“Oh,” Mick says, chewing with an open mouth. “That a Jewish thing or somethin’?”

Len shifts in his chair. His shoulder throbs. “Actually,” he says. “I’m Muslim.”

Mick’s lips twitch. “Huh,” he says. “Didn’t know you guys had a hate on for Piglet, too.”

Shrugging, Mick reaches down, grabs Len’s plate from him, and returns with it to the stove. Len’s about to protest that picking the bacon off won’t be enough now that it’s soaked into everything else, but he doesn’t have to. Mick sets the frying pan down and comes back with a clean plate, handing it to Len and settling in with Len’s old plate as his own.

“Yeah,” Len drawls. “It’s almost like we all wanted to be on the safe after the first guy got trichinosis.”

Mick hums, like Len’s probably got a point, but tucks into his bacon anyway. Len takes new pancakes on his new plate and covers them in syrup, then cuts a piece with his good arm and brings it to his mouth. It’s his non-dominant hand, so the trajectory’s a bit shaky, but he makes it.

“I just gotta say,” Mick says suddenly, out of the blue, a few bites later.

Len’s heart leaps into his throat and beats double time. Mick’s been the most constant, reliable person in his life outside of Lisa – maybe _including_ Lisa. They might not have the same degree of intimacy as most people who consider themselves friends, but for Len, they mean something. And he’s tried and injured and not in peak fighting condition. Whatever Mick’s going to say next, he tries to brace for it, but he’s not sure he can.

“I know jack shit about Muslimism,” Mick continues. He takes a heaping bite of pancakes and doesn’t wait to finish chewing before he’s speaking again. “So if I say somethin’ dumb, tell me to fuck off.”

Len chuckles. He can’t help it. Something in the relief is explosive. “Well, to start, it’s Islam,” Len says.

Mick’s brow furrows. “Why?” he asks.

“They’re Arabic words, Mick,” Len replies. “They don’t really care about English grammar.”

Mick snorts. “Last I checked, English didn’t care about English grammar, either.”

They get through another few bites of pancakes before Mick comes back with more questions, but Len feels none of the panic from before. Mick’s curiosity is friendly, rather than an inquisition. Len isn’t used to that, but he thinks, as a wave of fondness settles in his chest, it’s something he could _get_ used to.

“Is that something you grew up like?” Mick asks.

Len tilts his head rather than aggravate his shoulder with a shrug. “When I was younger,” he says. “Moved away from things by the time we met, but I’ve been getting back into it.”

“I wish I could move away from things,” Mick says with a small grunt, somewhere between amused and genuinely annoyed. “Pretty sure I still recite acts of contrition in my sleep.”

“Are you still religious?” Len wonders. He wants to know, to understand Mick better. Len’s never been one for sharing, but something about this feels good.

“Irish Catholic. Such a big part of growin’ up, couldn’t really stop being if I wanted to,” Mick replies. “‘Course, it’s more a personality thing than a religion thing now. Can’t say I believe in God. If He really existed, things would be good, instead of bein’ this.

“But,” Mick says. “I believe in honesty, confessin’ your sins. Believe the undesirables and the wretched deserve as much as anyone else does. Occasion calls for it, I even believe in forgiveness, turning the other cheek and all that hippie crap.

“None of that bullshit about burning in hell,” he adds. “Probably is one, and it’s probably even where I’m goin’. But because I’m a murderer, and a heartless bastard to boot. People out there, livin’ their lives, loving and fucking whoever they want, maybe doing a few shit things ‘cause everyone’s human. That’s not mortal sin. Pope can get fucked for all I care if he disagrees. I know what it’s like to be a bad man. Catholic Church doesn’t have a fuckin’ clue.”

“You ever find it weird?” Len asks. He can’t seem to find his appetite with his stomach full of lead. “Having faith and doing what we do?”

“It’s all weird,” Mick says with a shrug. “End of the day, what you believe is up to you. Then deciding what, of all that, actually matters. Ain’t a religion in the world that’s gonna call us Saints, Snart. Doesn’t mean you can’t wanna walk the parts of the path you can still reach.”

 

**_4\. Sara_ **

Len is walking the halls of the Waverider when he hears it, a low and guttural sound, like a river carved through a mountainside, harsh and abrupt in places, buoyant and fluid in others. Hair rises on the back of his neck as his whole body turns clammy and cold with some ineffable feeling. It’s waking up from a nightmare. It’s nearly falling on the ice. It’s misremembering an extra stair in the dark.  

_It’s Arabic._

Len understands a few words – _sorry_ , and _soon_ , and _can’t wait_ , and _I love you_ – but hears even more, combinations of sounds, sharp and rough, that mean nothing to him anymore, and yet somehow still mean everything. His eyes burn, but he won’t cry. Like speaking his mother’s native tongue, he doesn’t know how to do that anymore.

Abruptly, the talking stops. Len considers retreating to his room, forgetting this ever happened and going about his life. Had he been outside anyone else’s room, he might have.

He knocks on Sara’s door.

“Come in,” she says.

The door slides open, and Len steps inside. Sara sits cross-legged on her bed, hair half-up, with one of the Waverider’s intertemporal calling devices in her lap. Len hovers, torn between sprawling performatively and keeping a safe distance.

“Nyssa?” Len asks.

Sara nods.

“I didn’t know you were fluent in Arabic,” he says.

Sara snorts. “My pronunciation is shit,” she replies. “But Nyss was having a rough day, and sometimes it’s nice to just turn your brain off and speak your first language, you know?”

“I wouldn’t,” Len says. “Haven’t been able to speak mine in years.”

Sara’s eyes are suddenly wide. She shuffles over in bed and looks pointedly at the empty space left at the far end. Len sighs and stalks over, sitting with his back against the wall, spindly legs out in front.

“Well,” Len amends after a moment. “That’s not entirely true. English is a first language, too. Just not the only one. Or it wasn’t.”

“Arabic?” Sara asks, an expert at reading people, but especially her friends. Especially him.

Len shrugs. “My mother was Lebanese,” he says. “She left the country when the civil war broke out. Married Dear ‘Ole Dad not long after. From what I’ve gathered.”  

“How long were you fluent?” Sara wonders.

Len says nothing, stares blankly ahead at the wall with stony eyes and twirls the ring on his pinky.

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want,” she says. “I know I could go for some gin. The card game or the alcohol, I’m not picky.”

She chuckles a bit at her own joke, then shifts to move off the bed.

“I was six when she died,” Len says, shocking Sara silent and still. “Dad had already started getting hands on about keeping _that towelhead stuff”_ – said with a sneer – “out of his red-blooded American house. And I was lighter than her. White passing. He thought he could save me from being like her. All he had to do was beat her language, her culture, her religion out of me, and I’d be just peachy.”

Sara bites her lips, eyes wet. “That’s shit,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“Tip of the iceberg,” Len replies with a shrug. “Hardly worth mentioning.”

“Do you forget it all?” Sara asks.

Len frowns. “Most of the language is gone,” he answers. “Still a practicing Muslim.”

“You drink all the time,” Sara says. “I thought that wasn’t allowed.”

Len smirks. “That’s why I’m still practicing.”

Sara groans at the pun, shakes her head and buries her face in her hand to hide the way her frustration devolves into laughter.

“Please,” Len adds. “As if you don’t do things the Catholic Church would frown upon all the time.”

Sara’s still chuckling when she answers. “Tough luck for the Catholics, then, because I’m not.”

Len raises a surprised eyebrow.

“Not everyone who believes in Jesus is Catholic, Leonard,” Sara says with a dismissive scoff and an eyeroll. “I’m Presbyterian. Not to say we’re above critique, but we’re also one of the largest Christian denominations in the world that supports gay marriage. Plus, we starting ordaining women way back in the 30s. The number of men and women ordained now is almost equal.”  

“Is this Presbyterianism 101 or are you just bragging?” Len asks in his signature drawl, fixing Sara with a teasing smirk.

Sara narrows her eyes. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” she says back, but it’s all in good fun. Len laughs from his belly, nothing more than a short, quick chuckle, but it’s enough to lighten the mood.  

“I could teach you,” Sara offers after a moment of companionable silence, soft and so earnest. “Arabic. Or, re-teach you, I guess.”

Len snaps his head sideways, staring at her, wide-eyed and guarded.

“Though, again, _godawful pronunciation problems_ ,” Sara chuckles, and whether she’s reminding him or herself, Len isn’t sure. “I could be more of a curse than a blessing.”

Len shakes his head. “Don’t sweat it,” he says. A warmth settles over his chest. “I remember how it sounds.”

 

**_5\. Barry_ **

“Do you want our kids to be Jewish or Muslim?”

Barry’s sudden question takes Len by surprise. They’re in the galley-style kitchen of their two bedroom apartment, dating for close to three years but not engaged yet – though it’s something Len’s been thinking about more and more the longer his travels on the Waverider keep him away.

“I didn’t realize we were expecting,” Len drawls, leaning against the counter, arms crossed at the wrists.

Barry frowns. He turns back to his pot on the stove and sticks the wooden spoon gripped like a vice in his hand back in, stirring the contents with more vigour that strictly necessary. “Be serious,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Len says, tilting his head in that way he does to demonstrate his acquiescence. “This is me being serious.”

He’s quiet, waiting, and Barry sighs before asking again, “do you want to raise our kids Jewish or Muslim? It’s not that hard a question.”

“What do you want us to do?” Len throws back.

Barry freezes, hand still gripping the spoon. “Wait, seriously?” he says. “You’re actually okay with us talking about having kids?”

“I’m assuming you don’t mean tomorrow,” Len says with a roll of his eyes.

Barry swallows thick and nods. “Okay,” he says. “Well, I guess the reason I’m asking is because I’ve been thinking a lot about our future lately, and every time I do, I realize how important religion being a part of that is for me.”

Len is quiet, considering.

“Is that weird?” Barry asks, when his patience wears thin and Len still hasn’t replied.

“It’s not weird,” Len assures him. “I’d just never thought about it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want our kids to be able to make their own choices about believing in God, or which version Him they think is the right one,” Barry says, rushing to explain, the way he always does when his ideas are so personal. “I mean, they could grow up and be Christian, and it’s not like I’d be upset.”

Barry stirs the soup again, calm and repetitive, leaning over the pot to let the steam settle against his face. Len reaches out and wraps a hand around the base of his neck, squeezing in reassurance.

“Growing up, losing my parents,” Barry says, after taking a moment to collect himself. “I lost my whole community. Moving in with Joe and Iris, they were great, but they’re atheist, you know. There are things about being religious and why it’s important they never really understood, and my Jewishness became this thing that sort of fell through the cracks.

“I’m not mad,” Barry says quickly, forceful in a way that makes the statement hard to believe. “I just– I remember what it felt like to go to temple for the first time since I was a kid while I was away at university. It felt like home, like there was this whole community that I shared something really deep with and just– I felt like I was a part of something again, something bigger than me.

“I want our kids to have that,” Barry says. “And yeah, a selfish part of me wants them to be Jewish, because I want to share that with them. But at the same time, I want them to be able to share your religion with you, too. And I figured there was no easy answer, so it’s probably something we should start talking about sooner rather than later.”

Len wraps his arms around Barry’s waist and rests his chin on his shoulder. Barry melts into him, nervous tension easing from his muscles.

“I hate to break it to you, Barry,” Len whispers, bumping Barry’s ear with his nose. “But we’re not exactly special. Interfaith families have been around a lot longer that we have.”

Barry scoffs. “I know that,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean there’s some kind of guidebook. Is there a guidebook?”

Barry turns to catch Len’s eye over his shoulder. Len can’t help himself, leaning in to steal a kiss that Barry eagerly returns.

“We’ll figure it out,” Len says when they separate. “If the culture and the community is what’s most important to you, we’ll find a way to make sure they have that.”

“What, like sermon Friday, temple Saturday?” Barry asks.

Len shrugs. “We could,” he agrees.

Barry laughs and shakes his head pitifully. “God, that’s so much religion,” Barry says. “Our kids are gonna hate us.”

“We don’t have to force them, Barry,” Len reminds him. “Plus, you said it yourself. It’s not all about the religious angle. I’d like them to speak Arabic. To be charitable. To have principles, self-discipline–”

“Ethics,” Barry adds.

Len quirks an eyebrow. “Now, Barry,” he teases. “Are you calling Islam unethical.”

“No,” Barry replies with an embarrassed flush. “But I figured, as long as we’re listing things we hope our children learn from us, I should make my position on _certain things_ clear.”

Len nods. “Got it,” he says. “No teaching them to pick locks until they’ve started elementary school.”

“Len,” Barry huffs.

“Junior high,” Len amends. Barry chuckles, exasperated, but doesn’t argue the point further, and Len feels quite confident that he’s won this round. “Plus, we’ll have traditions to pass down,” he adds. “Food.”

Barry frowns. “Are you just using cuddles to get closer to my matzo ball soup?” he asks, feigning indignation.

Len smirks and kisses the corner of Barry’s jaw. “I’m a dishonest guy, Barry,” he drawls. “You knew this about me when we started dating.”

Barry rolls his eyes. “Here,” he says, collecting a sample of broth in the curve of his wooden spoon and holding it to Len’s lips. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Len doesn’t need the reminder, but he appreciates it, appreciates Barry’s concern. He watches Len sip the broth from the spoon, nervous to see his reaction. The old family recipe Barry found in a box of his mother’s things is faded with age, but still mostly legible, and every nuance in Barry’s expression betrays how much he wants to get it exactly right.

“So?” Barry asks.

Len smooths his hand over the knots in Barry’s stomach. “Tastes like tradition to me.”

 

**_+1. Zari_ **

“You look worried Allah’s going to smite if you take another step.”

The observation isn’t entirely inaccurate. Len hovers just outside the open door, eyeing the ledge in the flooring where cement gives way to tile.

Zari sighs. “You’ve been inside a mosque before, right?”

That’s enough to push Len over the threshold, squaring his shoulders and leading Zari to the coat check to remove their shoes.

“I’ve been inside _my_ mosque,” Len hisses. “Where the Imam knows I’m a supervillain instead of a fraud pretending to be a good Muslim.”

They’re in Toronto, 2246, chasing down a band of Time Pirates looking to bring advanced tech back to the medieval era. A lull in their mission’s forward momentum just so happens to line up perfectly with Friday sermon, and while Len wouldn’t normally bother finding a mosque to attend prayers, Zari, in her enthusiasm to share the experience with a fellow Muslim, roped him along.

Zari shakes her head and rolls her eyes at Len’s declaration. “There is no such thing as a good Muslim versus a bad Muslim,” she says, taking a deep red scarf from her bag and wrapping it around her head to cover her hair. “There are only people and the various ways in which they interact with their faith. Your relationship with Allah is yours. You shouldn’t feel shamed because it’s different than someone else’s.”

“Wow, Sister Zari, you’re right,” Leon deadpans. “However would I handle my crises of faith without you?”

Zari narrows her eyes. “I don’t appreciate when you use Sister in a mocking tone, _Brother Leonard_ ,” she says pointedly.

Len tips his head. “Fair,” he replies.

“Now, come on,” Zari says, urging him along with a wave but keeping her hands to herself. The mosque is progressive in its views according to their cursory research – all of the 2240s seems to be – but Len doesn’t think Zari avoids touching him for propriety’s sake. She’s more devout than he’s ever been, prays five times a day when she can, getting Gideon to keep track of her internal clock the way Stein taught Len all those months ago. The choice to refrain from touching him is a choice she’s making for her.

“We still need to perform _wudu_ , and with how meticulous you are, we could be there all day,” Zari teases. She crinkles her nose and sticks out her tongue, and despite himself, Len’s chest floods with fondness.

“Also fair,” he agrees. Sliding his shoes into an empty cubby, Len follows Zari through the entrance space to prepare for prayer.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr!](www.asexual-fandom-queen.tumblr.com)


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